


The second queen

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Insecurity, Kissing, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil finds love again, but his would-be queen has concerns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The second queen

Looking back, in the years to come, you would tell the story that your life had truly begun at the the spring festival of Nost-na-Lothion, the Birth of Flowers. The evening had seemed ripe with promise as you’d painstakingly arranged your hair and dressed in your rich, leaf-green gown, and twirled playfully before your father, asking, “how do I look, Ada?”

“Beautiful, _iellig_ ,” he’d replied with a smile. “You will shine as the starlight for everyone to see.”

As one of King Thranduil’s advisors, your father was a distinguished guest at the feast, and introduced you to what seemed like an endless stream of his acquaintances. When he was drawn by another of the King’s councillors into a conversation about trade with the men of Laketown, you took the opportunity to wander to the fringes of the crowd, watching the dancers in the center of the grand chamber. You had momentarily glanced down, idly smoothing your skirts and adjusting the bracelets on your wrists, when a pair of feet stopped before you, and you looked up, surprised, into the face of the King. 

Thranduil’s beauty and proximity nearly took your breath away, and your cheeks flushed under the intense gaze of his clear, blue eyes. With a small bow, he offered you his hand. Slowly, you placed your own hand on his palm, and his slender fingers closed over it as he led you out among the dancers.

Your heart drummed so hard against your chest that you feared he must feel it, but your feet faithfully carried you through the steps of the dance. Thranduil moved with grace and elegance, and yet there was unmistakable strength in the arms that held you, in the palm of his hand, firm and sure on your back. You caught the scent of sandalwood and oakmoss on his garments and smiled unconsciously in enjoyment.

“Something pleases you?”

You looked into Thranduil’s eyes, flustered. “Oh…” you smiled nervously, shaking your head. “I am sorry, where are my manners? I have not even introduced myself.”

“I know who you are.” His smile was confident, easy. “You are Erthor’s daughter. I have heard your name many times, but I did not know it belonged to such a beautiful lady.” 

“I thank you, my lord,” you replied, feeling the heat of the pink stain that crept again into your cheeks.

“This is your first time at court, is it not? I hope you find yourself content in my halls.”

“Very content,” you answered, truthfully. “I have many opportunities here to pursue my interests.”

He cocked his head slightly, regarding you with curiosity. “And what are your interests?”

You smiled more genuinely, relaxing as he drew you into conversation. “I believe I could live happily in the library,” you confessed, with a small chuckle, and he smiled as well. “And my father has engaged a tutor, Master Gannelon…he is very wise, he teaches me about art and history and the meanings of the stars…it is fascinating.” 

“You value learning,” Thranduil observed approvingly. “What do you like best to read?”

“Master Gannelon says that I should devote myself primarily to history, for it instructs us on the best and worst of our nature,” you admitted, “but I love poetry most of all. There is such beauty and feeling in it.” He said nothing in response, but only nodded, seeming to study your face thoughtfully.

The musicians finished their song with a flourish and Thranduil escorted you back to your place beside your father. With a bow and a kiss to your hand, he thanked you for the dance and disappeared into the throng of revelers. You exhaled for what felt like the first time since he had approached you, and your father bestowed a delighted smile on you.

When you returned to your rooms that night, tired but happy, the maid who attended you was just drawing a bath and laying out your nightclothes. “Something came for you while you were out, _hiril nín,_ ” she said, turning your attention to a small parcel on the table beside the fireplace. “Someone from the King’s household brought it.” Curious, you crossed the room to pick it up. Pulling the end of the silk ribbon that bound the neat wrapping of tea-colored parchment, you discovered a book, bound with leather, its pages illuminated with inks of rich colors and filled, in elegant, curving script, with poems.

If you had been surprised to have danced with the King and received his gift, you were astonished when a servant arrived at your chambers the next day with an invitation to join Thranduil for luncheon. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, you followed the servant to a stately dining room, where a table was beautifully laid for two, adorned with fresh flowers and fruits and wine that shimmered like a rich, red jewel in its crystal decanter.

Thranduil swept into the room, dismissing the servant and moving to pull out a chair for you. “Thank you for coming,” he said, as you took your seat.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you replied, feeling warmed by the answering smile that softened his formidable countenance. “And thank you so much for the book. It is so lovely.”

His smile grew wider, and he inclined his head. “I hoped you would like it.”

You would see many more of the dazzling smiles that only true enjoyment could elicit from him in the days and weeks to come, as he requested your company for luncheons, suppers, walks in the forest and visits to the balconies and hidden grottoes of his palace. He plied you with books from his personal library and took you to a secluded terrace in the highest reaches of his halls that afforded a spectacular view of the night sky and the constellations of your tutor’s lessons. 

You were pleasantly surprised to find that when he spent time with you, the mask of commanding formality that Thranduil usually wore fell away, and he was amiable, relaxed, kind. You exchanged stories, spoke of your lives, your hopes, your opinions, often interrupted only by attendants come to remind the king of his other obligations.

Gradually, Thranduil became your last thought before you closed your eyes at night and your first when you opened them again in the morning, and you began, in the depths of your heart, to recognize what you felt for him as love. This should have been a wondrous realization, but there was yet one thing to temper your happiness.

Thranduil’s love for his wife, and grief at her death, had been great, and even now, there were reminders of her everywhere. She was present in the fond words of the older servants who spoke of her almost as if she had only stepped out, and would return at any moment…in the byword for beauty and grace that her name had become among the King’s courtiers…in the face of her son, Legolas, who persisted in keeping you at a formal distance, despite your attempts at friendly overtures. Under the long shadow she cast, insecurity had crept into your blood like poison, the nagging thought always lurking in your mind that perhaps it was mere loneliness that made Thranduil seek out your company, and that you could only ever be a poor substitute.

The day he asked you to have supper with him in his chambers, you were taken aback. In all the time you had spent with him, you’d never been behind the doors of the King’s private quarters, and you fairly burned with curiosity as you knocked at their entrance at the appointed time. 

Thranduil himself opened the door to you, his robe of lush brown velvet showing flashes of its burnt-orange lining as he turned to lead you into the sitting room. The chamber was bathed in the golden glow of amber lanterns, and candles flickered in large candelabras of carven wood in the shape of stags’ horns, illuminating the lofty ceiling with its intricately painted patterns of branches and leaves. There was a fireplace so large you could nearly have stood in it, in which a fire crackled cozily, and a small, round table beside it where your supper awaited you. 

The food was delicious, and you ate with enjoyment, but you found yourself carrying the conversation more than usual. You often caught Thranduil looking at you, a smile playing about his lips and an enigmatic look in his eyes. Finally, you lay down your fork and said, feigning seriousness, “I shall die of curiosity if you do not tell me what you are thinking.” 

He smiled mysteriously, and without a word, reached into his robe and produced a small box, carved of wood. Placing it on the table, he slid it across the surface to rest in front of you. You raised your eyebrows questioningly, and he merely gestured lightly with his hand toward the box. Carefully, you opened the lid, your eyes widening as you did so.

Inside was a ring. A ring of silver, wrought into a delicate pattern reminiscent of trailing vines, holding a shimmering white gem in a setting made to look like a flower. The beating of your heart quickened. “What is it?” you asked, your mouth suddenly dry.

“I think you know what it is,” he smiled. “It is a betrothal gift. I wish you to pledge yourself to me, if you are willing.” 

A multitude of emotions did battle in your mind. You loved him, of that there could be no doubt, and you were overjoyed to think that he wanted you by his side. Yet that small, mocking, inner voice poured its venomous words into you now more than ever before, telling you that neither Thranduil’s subjects nor his son would ever see you as his true queen, that you might spend an eternity bound to a husband whose heart would always truly belong to the one who had come before.

Your thoughts were racing along with your heart, and a knot began to tighten in the pit of your stomach. “I do not know what to say,” you said in a frightened whisper.

His confident expression had faltered at the sight of your agitation, and his face clouded with embarrassment. “Can you not say yes?” he asked, his voice sounding constricted.

The very air in the room seemed to smother you, and you stood, desperately ashamed of your fears and of his disappointment, stammering, “I…I am sorry.” After a fleeting, panicked moment of indecision, you turned and fled, leaving him staring after you, seeing only a glimpse of the hurt and bewilderment on his face as the door closed behind you.

The next morning’s sunrise found you in the forest, weary from a restless night and sitting miserably, wrapped in a cloak, on a fallen log beyond the bridge that spanned the river flowing just outside the palace gate. Shame and regret had been your constant companions since the scene in Thranduil’s chambers, and tears ran unchecked down your cheeks at the memory of your clumsy rejection of his proposal.

A movement nearby attracted your attention, and you looked up to see Legolas walking toward you from the bridge. Quickly wiping your eyes on the sleeve of your gown, you attempted to recover some form of composure before greeting the prince. “My lord Legolas,” you said meekly.

He bowed his head, and after standing by for a moment, scanning the forest, he seated himself beside you on the log. Too tired and heartsick even to wonder at his presence, you stared into the trees and said nothing, as he also remained silent.

Abruptly, but not unkindly, he spoke. “My father is cold and withdrawn this morning, and I find you crying, alone, in the wood.” He turned his blue eyes, so like Thranduil’s, on you at last. “What has happened?”

You struggled to keep the tears from your voice, even as they sprang into your eyes. “I have lost him, by my own foolishness.” 

Legolas turned his attention back to the forest. He hesitated, as though wrestling with his thoughts, then looked to you again. “I once begrudged you my father’s affections,” he admitted. You met his eyes, surprised by his frankness, but he continued. “I felt he should remain faithful to the memory of my mother. But I have seen the change in him…the lightness of his heart, the calming of the storm in his mind. He is content. Content, because he loves you.” 

His words sent a fresh pang through you, and you shook your head. “I was a coward. I humiliated myself, and him. He will never want me now.”

His gaze was intent. “Go to him. Speak your thoughts,” he said firmly. “He will not give up so easily.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded slowly, and he permitted himself the smallest of smiles, which you found yourself shyly returning. “Thank you,” you said.

He stood, and you followed suit, brushing dried leaves from your cloak. He gave a short nod and said, quietly, “I wish you well… _mellon._ ” Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the forest, bow in hand, and you set your face toward the palace gates.

A guard escorted you into the throne room, where Thranduil was just dismissing one of his advisors, whom you recognized from your father’s circle. The brittle, businesslike smile faded from the King’s face as his eyes met yours, and he stood and descended the steps from his throne to the floor. “Leave us,” he said to the guard, still holding your gaze as you both waited for the sound of footsteps to fade.

“Forgive me, Thranduil,” you murmured, when you were alone in the chamber.

“It is I who must ask forgiveness of you,” he said briskly, finally looking away from you, “clearly I misjudged your feelings for me.”

“No!” you blurted, feeling as though your heart would break to see him so distant and proud. His eyes returned to yours sharply, and you continued, in a more measured tone. “No, _meleth_ …you did not.”

Confusion was plain on his face upon hearing the endearment, and he gave a small shake of his head. “I do not understand.”

“Thranduil, last night,” you took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of your hands, “I could not give you an answer, not because I wished to repel you, but because I was afraid.”

His brow furrowed. “Afraid…afraid of me?” He spoke as though pained by the possibility.

“No,” you answered emphatically. Steeling yourself, you declared, “I cannot replace your wife.”

Thranduil looked stricken. “No,” he breathed. “Nor do I ask it of you. Who has given you this idea?”

“It is only that everyone speaks so highly of her, and remembers her so fondly, and you…you loved her so dearly…” your voice trailed off self-consciously as you looked to the floor, abashed.

After a moment of silence, his hands gently clasped your shoulders, his head tilting to draw your gaze to his, and you looked up to see sorrow and fondness mingled in his eyes. “ _Meleth nín_ ,” he said softly, “have you truly believed that I wished you to be merely a surrogate?” His hands slid down your arms and came to rest on your waist, your heartbeat quickening with the contact.

“Perhaps it is my fault, for failing to reveal the depth of my feelings for you. For that, I am sorry.” He looked intently at you, his eyes flickering back and forth between each of yours. “You must know that if I have asked you to be my wife, it is because I have grown to love you. Your smile cheers me, as the shining of the sun. Your compassion lightens my burdens, your intelligence sharpens my mind.” He paused, his graceful hand moving to caress your cheek. “If I ask you to be mine, it is because I wish to care for you, to protect you. I wish to know you fully, as no one else can. I wish you to share my bed, to show me your passion, to give life to my children. Tell me,” he concluded, fervently, “do you still doubt my sincerity?”

You felt almost breathless with the intensity of his confession, but in your soul there was peace you had never known before. “No,” you answered earnestly, gently resting the palm of your hand on his chest, your eyes lit with the joy of your new assurance. “Thranduil, I could wish for no greater happiness than to be your wife…I can offer you only myself, and the promise to love you faithfully, and with all that I am,” you looked hopefully at him, “if you will have me.”

His face was radiant. “What you offer is all that my heart desires.” He released you for the moment and reached into his silver robe as you looked on wonderingly. “I could not bear to put this away,” he explained, bringing out the tiny wooden box you had left lying on the table in his sitting room. He looked deep into your eyes, his expression suddenly solemn, his voice quiet. “Will you do me the honor of wearing it?” 

With an elated smile, you simply held out your hand, palm down, and he slipped the sparkling ring on your finger before pressing your hand to his lips. His lithe arms came around your waist, holding you close to him, and there, in the shadow of his throne, he bent to kiss you for the first time. His lips were soft and adoring against yours, his breath warm on your cheek as he murmured tender words. Your fingertips lovingly explored his flawless face, stroked his silky hair, and you smiled contentedly as you were enveloped by the scent of sandalwood and oakmoss…the scent that, for the rest of your days, would mean that you were at home in the arms of your King, your love, your husband.


End file.
